


through your prism of love

by drcloyd



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-08-01 21:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16292117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcloyd/pseuds/drcloyd
Summary: Paul disappears during a scavenging run with Aaron.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> guess who thought it was a good idea to start another wip?? this girl. i actually wrote this and then forgot about it but i found it again this weekend and it wouldn't leave me alone, so here you go. talking about love will definitely have an update tomorrow though!

“Dunno why you can’t just wait for me,” Daryl grumbled, watching as Paul slid some essentials into his pack. Like they hadn’t talked about it already, and Daryl hadn’t already conceded that they needed this. More and more people were flocking to the communities every day. 

Them mouths weren’t gonna feed themselves. 

“I’ll be fine,” Paul said, glancing over his shoulder. “Aaron and I are just going to make sure it’s as untouched as Ethan said, and then we’re coming right back.” 

Daryl huffed, slouching a little more on the couch. 

“Two days, tops,” Paul continued, shrugging his pack on as he crossed the trailer to Daryl’s side, careful to mind his bandaged foot propped up on a milk crate. “Promise,” he said, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his lips. “Be back before you know – “ 

Daryl slid a hand around the back of his neck, smothering the rest of his words with something that left them both a little breathless when Paul finally pulled away. 

“That almost worked,” Paul said with a grin, giving him another chaste peck that he refused to let get heated again. Eventually, Daryl had to let him go, and he watched Paul leave with promises that Maggie would be by to check on him, and there was water in the canteen behind the pillow, and he’ll be back soon he _promised_. 

The last few words were muffled as the trailer door shut and Daryl stared at Paul’s disappearing back through the screen wondering why three little words always seemed to catch at the back of his throat, why he couldn’t seem to force them past his lips.  
_________________________

“They came out of nowhere. We couldn’t...” 

“Where is he?” Daryl was on his feet in an instant, ankle nearly buckling beneath his weight, all but snarling in Aaron’s face as the man stood on the steps of the trailer, gray faced, a bruise blooming over his left temple. 

“I don’t – Daryl, they knocked me out and when I woke up – “ 

“Was he – did you see him?” His voice cracked, the words near refusing to leave his mouth. Paul couldn’t be – he couldn’t. “Did you see him,” he asked again, urgently, harsh, Aaron’s dazed gaze settling back on him. Concussion. 

“I don’t know. I didn’t see – I didn’t see him, and they were gone, maybe they – maybe they took him....” 

“I’m – I gotta go I –“ The pain in his ankle was bearable, if he didn’t think about it and he nearly shoved him when Aaron put a hand against his shoulder, halting his limping steps past him down the trailer steps.

“Just _wait_ , Daryl,” Aaron said, his voice sounding like it’d been scraped over glass. Daryl stopped, muscles vibrating with tension, resisting the urge to blow right past. Aaron looked like one shove would shatter him into a million goddamn pieces. “At least pack a bag.” 

Daryl eyed him for a long moment, suspicious like he expected Aaron to follow it up with something about his ankle, or how there was no telling where Paul was. 

He didn’t say anything. 

Daryl packed a bag. 

And he went.  
_________________________ 

When Aaron found him thirty hours later, he was soaked to the bone, with a limp that rivaled one of the dead who’d gotten their damn leg gnawed off. There was no trail. Or if there was, the rain had fucked it up before he’d gotten to see it. Paul was dead or not dead it didn’t matter – he was fucking gone. 

Daryl almost considered asking Aaron to leave him be, let the walkers find him, but talking seemed like too much effort. He got in the car. 

He got in the car and he let Aaron drive him back to Hilltop, and he watched out the window for the smudge of Paul’s shape. 

The entire ride back, he didn’t see a single fucking walker. 

For a week after that, Daryl was bedridden with the flu. When he could finally walk across the trailer without collapsing into a heap, he went straight back, despite Maggie’s tearful pleas to rest a little more. 

If there was no trail before, there was even less of one now, but he couldn’t stop himself. 

Day after day he’d come back, looking for a hint.

A clue. 

There was nothing.  
_________________________

The world was gray without Paul. 

Daryl existed, because he had to. 

He went on runs and brought back deer and watched the community flourish around him. 

If he drank a little more on the days he went to the warehouse, nobody said anything. 

He didn’t expect to find anything, anymore. He didn’t know why he went, exactly. He’d stare at the gravel and think about how some of those pieces coulda been some of the ones Paul’d touched. 

He never felt no closer to Paul, then, but it became a habit. 

Once, somebody had suggested holding some sort of memorial for Paul. A way to pay their respects to the scout, since there wasn’t nothin’ to burn. 

Daryl’d felt like he was choking on air. 

He went to the warehouse and didn’t come back for two days. 

Weeks turned into months and the world kept fucking turning. It didn’t seem fair, but then again, when had it ever? 

The communities started getting together every month – to celebrate the newly unfurling trade routes between them. It felt like something they shoulda been proud of – his hodge podge family sprawled out among the communities all together for once, standing in the middle of something they’d created. 

Daryl didn’t feel much of anything, but he was happy for his family. 

The seasons changed, the communities grew – there were babies being born and it seemed for once, the world was just gonna let ‘em be. 

Not knowing went from being an unbearable agony to an unbearable itch, and by the time a year had passed he’d limited his trips to the warehouse to once every other week. 

Sometimes, Daryl thought about walking out into the woods and not coming back. Thought about throwing himself to the first walker he could find. 

And then he’d think about Paul’s face, his smile, the way he could twist his words around and around to make it sound like he was saying something profound but it was all just bullshit. His heart would ache, and he’d think about how Paul would kick his ass six ways to Sunday if he dared do it. 

So, he didn’t. 

He existed. 

It was fine.  
_________________________

One year, three months and two days after Aaron came back from the warehouse without Paul, Daryl was on watch. 

The walkers these days were slow, decaying, more a nuisance than a danger and Daryl was only paying attention out of habit. 

There weren’t too many ways to sneak up on the high gates at Hilltop, so most of the time they were just watching for people. 

Today, however, he could see a shambling shape in the distance.

He didn’t bother grabbing his crossbow just yet, the heat in the air making him lazy. 

It got closer and closer, and eventually, something about it made Daryl sit up a little straighter. 

The leather duster was shabby – torn in places and covered in dirt. But he knew that duster. Knew that hair, tangled as it was. Knew that face, even though it was angled toward the ground, the only recognizable shape the slant of his nose. 

Paul. 

Daryl felt like a stone had settled in his gut. 

He wouldn’t look like that if he’d been a walker for a year. He wouldn’t. 

Daryl found himself standing, already yanking the gate open before scrambling down the ladder. 

He stood there, in the opening, as the figure shambled closer and closer. There was a ringing in his ears, and he thought, just for a moment, that if this was it – if this was Paul as a walker, if he just let him get a little closer, if that was the way he went – then that was okay. 

Except. 

The figure stopped. He raised his head, beard wild and unruly, sea glass eyes wide and unfocused, and he _smiled_.

“Daryl.” he said. 

And then he collapsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the set up chapter, the rest of them should be slower paced and more detailed :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm gonna keep these chapters short, because it seems to be the only way i can get them out quickly.

Everything was a bit of a blur after that. Daryl got Carson and they carried Paul back to the medical trailer. Daryl’s hands shook where they curled under Paul’s armpits and he nearly couldn’t force himself to let go as they lowered him to a bed. 

Paul was skin and bones when they peeled the duster off of him, the gauntness in his face overly apparent this close, even obscured by his beard, wild and untamed. His eyes flickered beneath his eyelids and he muttered in his sleep, but his pulse was strong, and Carson said it seemed like he was suffering from a combination of starvation, dehydration and exhaustion. 

Carson said a lot of other stuff, but Daryl’d tuned out when he said it looked like Paul was going to be alright, with a lot of rest and recuperation. 

Daryl sat by his bedside, wrapped one dirty hand around Paul’s – too thin – hand, and refused to move. 

The door to the trailer opened and Aaron came inside, his expression faltering as soon as he laid eyes on the bed. 

“Is he –" he started, trailing off as he stepped up behind Daryl. 

“Dehydrated, ‘n starvin’ but Carson said he’d be alright,” Daryl said, voice low, gravelly, eyes closing for one brief moment as Aaron’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. 

Daryl swallowed, giving Paul’s hand a squeeze, inhaling a rough breath. “He’s got – “ he started, voice dying on him so that he had to clear it, teeth worrying at his lower lip as he tried to force the words out. “Here,” he said, uncurling his fingers from Paul’s to reveal pale, bony wrists, with red scars around them, like he’d been bound. 

“Oh, Jesus,” Aaron whispered, voice thick with horror, leaning a little heavier on Daryl’s shoulder. 

“What the fuck happened to him?” Daryl whispered, staring at Paul like he might be able to undo the last year and change if he just stared hard enough. 

There was no answer. Not from Aaron, who’d gone silent, with horror and guilt and not from Paul, who slept on. Daryl stared, and hoped – hoped that whatever those scars meant, it wasn’t as bad as what his mind was conjuring up. 

It was a fleeting hope. The world these days was cruel. 

— —

Thirty-six hours later, Daryl was still sitting at Paul’s bedside when he finally woke, sea green eyes flickering open and closed a half dozen time before they stayed open. He went still – unnaturally still – as his gaze flickered around the room, waiting for something. Or someone. 

But then his eyes met Daryl’s, wide and concerned, and he visibly eased, opening his mouth. All that came out was a strangled sound, lips so dry they were cracked and Daryl jumped into action, grabbing a pitcher from the bedside table and pouring a glass of water with shaking hands. 

“Here, here,” Daryl said, trying to hold the cup of water and help Paul into a sitting position at the same time. Paul was weak, hands clutching at Daryl’s biceps as he grunted with the effort it took to heave himself up and shuffle back against the pillows, even that brief movement tiring him. 

Daryl held the water to his lips, watching like a hawk as Paul’s hand slid over his, eyes closing as he gulped back the water, slow at first and then faster as his body realized it finally had some hydration, his throat bobbing and water spilling onto his front. Neither of them noticed. 

“Hey,” Daryl said, voice cracking, once the glass was emptied and put back on the table. 

“Hey,” Paul echoed, voice stronger this time. 

Daryl all but collapsed back into the chair, reaching for his hand again, fingers curling tight around it once more. “I thought you were –" he pressed his lips together, head bowing. “I kept lookin’ for ya, went back but there was – what the hell happened, Paul?” 

Paul stared at their joined hands, mouth working around the words he didn’t want to think about, much less say. “It was a group,” he said, gaze not moving from where Daryl’s thumb rubbed against his hand. “Apparently lock pickers are in high demand,” he said, the humor falling flat as his brow furrowed. 

Daryl frowned but didn’t press. It was obvious Paul didn’t want to talk about it, a faraway look in his eyes and so Daryl didn’t make him. 

— —

Three hours and twenty minutes after Paul woke up, Daryl was finally coaxed out of the medical trailer by a patient but firm Aaron. He hemmed and hawed and insisted he could eat just fine there as anywhere else, but when Carson popped his head in to say that Daryl was looking awfully grungy and dirt was bad for Paul's recovery, he finally was on his way, grumbling that he’d be back in twenty minutes. 

Aaron took the spot that Daryl vacated, sitting gingerly in the seat. 

"I'm so sorry Jesus I – "  
Paul shook his head. "It's not your fault," he said. 

Aaron frowned and looked away. "If I'd have just –" 

"They knocked you out. If you tried anything else, they would have killed you." He sounded sure. His fingers twisted together on his lap and Aaron tried not to look at the scarred marks around his wrists.

"Look I had...I had a lot of time to think," Paul said, staring down at his hands. "I didn't blame you for a second," he said, looking up to lock eyes with Aaron. "I'm just glad I'm back." 

Aaron nodded. 

"How...." Paul frowned, gaze flicking toward the trailer door. "How was he....?" he asked, voice soft, almost like he didn't want to know the answer. 

Aaron let out a breath. "He went out to that warehouse so many times," he said, brow furrowed with guilt. "I don't know that he ever expected to find you, really.... he just....didn't know how not to go," Aaron settled on. It was the truth, but it didn't exactly paint the entire picture of just how badly Daryl had faired in Paul's absence. 

Paul bit his lip, the skin so delicate that a smudge of blood bubbled up beneath the imprint of his tooth. 

"Are you....okay?" Aaron asked, hesitant, like he knew it was a dumb question before it even left his mouth.

Paul pasted a smile on his face, not noticeably fake, except for around the edges. "I'm home, now," he said. 

Aaron frowned. 

— —

It took two weeks for Paul to regain enough strength to move back into his trailer. He was still thin, but not alarmingly so and the night before he was declared fit enough to move he’d let Daryl shave his beard, in the fading yellow lamplight in the medical trailer. 

"Looks like a damn bird made a nest in it," Daryl gruffed, standing over the utility sink in the corner, Paul parked in a chair in front of it. 

"Says the man who hasn't had a haircut since the world ended," Paul quipped back. 

There was still something fragile about his humor, like it was an old coat that didn't quite fit anymore, but it wasn't something either of them wanted to bring attention to. Settling back into what they considered normalcy was easy, at least on the surface. 

If they didn't pay too close attention, it felt alright. 

Daryl eyed the ratty beard, fingers curling around the handle of a straight razor. One of the dinky disposable razors someone had brought back from a run wasn't gonna do shit against the beard Paul was sporting. He'd already lathered and wet it, but the idea of pressing the blade against Paul's skin made him uneasy. 

Paul pretended not to notice. 

"You never complained bout it before," Daryl replied, jaw setting as he brought the razor to Paul's face, one hand on his jaw to keep it steady. Paul went unnaturally still, not even breathing, but when Daryl made to pull away he put a hand against his and nodded as best he could without actually moving a muscle. 

Daryl swallowed and drew the blade slowly across his face. 

It was a long, slow process. 

By the time he was done, there was a pile of dirty, ragged hair in the trash and Paul's face was smooth. 

Daryl tipped his head back with a hand on his chin, making sure he got everything, but eventually just ended up running the pads of his fingers over his chin, his jawline, marveling at the smoothness and how _young_ Paul looked without it.

Still, even without it Paul looked like Paul again, not some man half-starved who'd obviously spent a good deal of the past year fending for himself in the wild. 

There was a faraway look in his eyes sometimes.

A year was a long time to be gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm doing my best not to fall into any one character's pov (a struggle for me, since i always want to write from daryl's). let me know if anything seems off!


	3. Chapter 3

It seemed like half of Hilltop gathered to watch Paul make the short trek to his trailer from medical, their gasps at the sight of his too prominent bones and bare chin poorly covered. Daryl bristled, but Paul kept his head high, gaze fixed on the distance, not catching on a single person. It made Daryl's heart ache to see it – the scout may not have ever been entirely comfortable being beloved by the community, but there was a time when he'd shouldered their love with baffled acceptance. 

Now it was like he didn't see it at all. 

The trailer was exactly the same as it'd been the day Paul had left, down to the milk crate Daryl had been resting his injured leg on. Daryl had alternated between being unable to stay away from the place where they'd spent so much time together and being unable to stay. 

Paul froze in the doorway, eyes trailing around the room. It didn't seem real, being home. He stepped forward, fingers trailing along the wall. He pressed, hard enough that his fingers stung, and dragged his hand along, dipping to touch the piles of books that were stacked along the perimeter, the actual bookshelf that had long since been full to bursting. 

He stopped in front of their bed and stared. Daryl couldn't bear to see the way his chin trembled, naked and exposed. But he didn't know how to step forward – didn't know if that was something he was allowed to do anymore. 

After a moment, everything _eased_ Paul's expression smoothing as he continued on, giving a short, sharp nod as if to say he was done. 

\-- -- --

A week later, the communities gathered together to celebrate Paul's return. There was a bonfire, copious amounts of toilet hooch and some liquor someone scored on a scavenging run. The communities don't need much of an excuse to get together these days, but for this? For this, nearly everyone turned out. 

Daryl watched his family come in pieces, separated amongst the communities, and there was something that eased in him every time they were all in one place together. Everyone that's left. 

Paul tolerated the attention for close to a half hour, mouth pressed into an unwavering smile – no hints of teeth – and no one seemed to notice how wrong it was. Daryl did. Daryl could tell. It was like he was slightly off axis from the Paul he used to be, not quite aligned just yet, but then everyone else was used to seeing Jesus. Jesus kept everyone at arm's length, so this was no different. 

But Daryl. Daryl knew Paul. 

Ten minutes after Paul slipped away, Daryl followed. 

There was an old bench near the wall, a short distance away from the makeshift graveyard Maggie had made. There weren't any more graves than Glenn and Abraham – someone had suggested that they build a symbolic one for Jesus and Daryl'd nearly ripped their head off. 

Paul was staring into the dark, jaw set. Daryl still couldn't get over how young he looked – as if his beard carried the weight of all his years in it.

But that wasn't true. Daryl looked at Paul and he looked heavier than ever, burdened by something that dragged his shoulders down, made him distant in a way Daryl didn't know how to overcome. 

Daryl sat next to him. Paul didn't move away, instead he swayed toward him, shoulders brushing briefly before he just _hovered_ , close enough for warmth to bleed between them. Daryl reached out without looking, his rough, scarred hand curling around Paul's, sliding over prominent bones almost as thin and delicate as a bird's. But Daryl knew that he was strong, so he squeezed. Paul squeezed back. 

It still felt like miles between them. 

They didn't talk. 

Daryl got it, he thought. He'd never been a fan of being around crowds of people either, their laughter and stories piling on top of each other until it was too much. 

So, they sat, shoulders not quite touching, hands curled around each other's. Daryl tried not to focus on the sharp feeling of bones beneath skin, and Paul forced himself to press into the contact instead of flinching away. 

He was home. This was Daryl. 

He was fine. 

\-- -- --

Life tilted toward normality. 

Paul grew strong enough to help out around the community again.

He spent hours bent over crops, uncovering roots and placing vegetables into old wicker baskets. There was a rhythm to it and sometimes it felt like no time passed at all when he did it. A blink, and he was done. 

Daryl hunted game beyond the wall. 

Once, he thought of asking Paul to go with him but when he opened his mouth, the way Paul froze like he was expecting a blow, like the idea of going outside the walls again was a physical force, stopped him in his tracks.

He did not ask. 

He went out and brought back game and tried to be gone as little as possible. 

The days bled into each other but the nights? 

The nights were hard. Paul didn't sleep, or at least, he never slept while Daryl was awake, and Daryl never slept very much. 

Daryl could feel the tension in him as they laid next to each other, though there might as well have been a gulf between them. An unnamable expanse that Daryl couldn't cross, even as he reached out. 

Most nights, Paul stared up at the ceiling. Closing his eyes meant that he'd see the things he didn't want to remember. So, he'd stare at the ceiling and watch Daryl out of the corner of his eye, the way the hunter's face would relax in sleep, unlined, gorgeous and vulnerable. 

Some nights he wanted to kiss him. 

Some nights he wanted to hit and bite and scream – how could Daryl lie there, asleep, unbothered? Paul knew Daryl's past. Knew...pieces. How could he go through all that and _sleep_? Bitter jealousy clawed at his gut. He shoved it down. 

He was fine. 

He was going to be fine. 

\-- -- --

Paul hated the way memories would sneak up on him at random moments. Once the shock of being back wore away, they crept in like ghosts, insidious. 

He was picking green beans and then he was curling his wrists, trying to get out of the ropes. He had always been able to get out of ropes before but these knots? 

They knew how to tie knots. 

_If you stop fighting, we'll untie you. Just stop fighting._

Paul had never stopped fighting. So, they'd never untied him. 

Until...

Until. 

\-- -- --

Daryl kissed him for the first time one month and two days after he'd collapsed at the gates. 

Paul was staring at himself in the mirror, squinting at the stubble that was slowly creeping over his chin. He missed his beard. 

Their morning routine was well worn – Daryl showered while Paul brushed his teeth, and Paul showered while Daryl got dressed, and then they both puttered around as they got ready for the day. They moved around each other like well-oiled machines, though these days there were hiccups. These days elbows knocked into elbows, Paul flinched away and swayed back, pressed against bare skin just to prove that he could. 

Paul stood there in his boxers and a t-shirt and stared at himself in the mirror and Daryl felt his heart clench in his chest, like a hand had reached in and squeezed. 

"Paul." 

Paul turned, a question in his eyes as Daryl stepped into his space. Paul's back pressed against the porcelain sink, chill bleeding through the shirt he'd tugged on. 

Daryl stared. 

Paul stared back. 

Something shifted in Paul's gaze, chin bobbing, just once, and then Daryl leaned forward and kissed him, soft and aching and too gentle. 

Paul's eyes closed for what felt like the first time in a month and he kissed back, mouth pliant – careful. Their lips pressed together and stayed, not much of a kiss, just contact – because they needed it, the feeling of warmth, of alive. Daryl brought a hand up to trace along the stubble, calluses catching on skin. 

"I missed you." 

They kissed again, mouths catching, until the short, sharp clang of the blacksmith's hammer startled apart. 

\-- -- --

One month after Paul went missing, Aaron had invited Daryl over for dinner. Aaron hadn't been able to remember how Eric used to make the pasta, so they had tinned ravioli instead and did more staring at their plates than talking. 

But Daryl came back every week. It was a lifeline, of sorts, even if it hadn't made Daryl feel particularly alive. Sometimes he'd felt more walker than person, just shambling through his days. There were bright spots – anger and pain, but everything else had been muted. 

Daryl had forgotten, in the confusion of having Paul back. 

He felt bad. Sometimes he'd wondered if he was a lifeline for Aaron too. 

So, he asked Aaron if it was alright if he brought Paul that night. Aaron had said of course. 

There was an empty space at the small kitchen table. Daryl and Paul on one side and Aaron and the empty space. Gracie was sleeping in the back room, having already eaten her spaghetti that evening and gotten it all over herself. 

"I’m glad you're back, Jesus," Aaron said. "We all - we all missed you." He said, obvious in the way his gaze deliberately did not cut to Daryl.

Paul smiled, nodded and paused. "Hilltop looks like it's been thriving since..." he started, words going brittle toward the end. He didn't like to think about _since_. 

Aaron didn't let the awkwardness dissuade him, instead he told Paul about the new crops, the solar panels they'd found and were preparing to scavenge, the little goings on of Hilltop. Daryl filled in with the occasional grunt, more focused on his food – Aaron had figured out a way to grow his own vegetables on the windowsill but they hadn't sprouted just yet.

Paul picked at his food, twirling his fork around the noodles. It was nice to eat food that wasn't stale bread or half-rotted fruit for a change, but his appetite had yet to return. Still. He forced himself to eat a few bites, nodding and smiling at Aaron's stories, foot shifting on the floor to butt up against Daryl's, needing the contact. 

Daryl glanced over at him, gaze seeking. An unspoken _you alright?_ Paul nodded. 

They went back to talking. 

\-- -- --

Daryl had always been the one with nightmares. Things that woke him up out of a dead sleep, chest heaving, whimpered cries clenched behind teeth, and all Paul had been able to do was watch. He'd always felt so helpless. 

But now he was staring at Daryl, his own chest heaving as he curled his hands into the bed sheets, staring at the dim light of the lantern on the table so he wouldn't have to go back to the darkness. 

_You're with us as long as you have a purpose. Do you have a purpose? We like you, I hope you still have a purpose_

Paul swallowed, eyes tearing as he stared at the lamp light without blinking, letting out a breath through clenched teeth. "Daryl..." he said, voice rough and almost strangled. He needed to hear something other than the voice in his head. 

"I'm here, 'm here," Daryl said, low and soothing, reaching one hand real slow across to take one of Paul's, unclasping his fingers from the sheets. 

Paul let him. Breathed out, nice and slow, and listened to Daryl murmur nonsense until he could breathe without feeling like his lungs were on fire. 

"Wanna tell me what happened?" Daryl asked, brow furrowed, voice still soothing. He wasn't sure if he was asking about the dream or about Paul's time spent missing, but he'd take either. Or neither. 

Paul swallowed, again and again, fingers curling around Daryl's. "No I –" he said, the idea of filling Daryl in on the entire story too monumental. "Not yet," he said. 

Not yet.


	4. Chapter 4

Daryl woke up in the middle of the night one month and seventeen days after Paul returned. The trailer was dark save the light of moon filtering in through the windows, but it only took his eyes a few moments to adjust, and even less time than that for him to notice that Paul was not in bed next to him. He sat up, senses already on high alert. Paul had nightmares most nights, nightmares that made him shake and reach out. Daryl wondered if he'd had one tonight, if he'd gotten confused or had a flashback and the thought was enough to propel him out of bed. 

He was shoving his feet into his boots, stomach twisting with nerves he wouldn't let take root, not yet - when something thumped on the roof. Daryl stilled, head tilted up as he studied the ceiling, like he might have developed x-ray vision in the last twenty seconds. He gave his head a shake and opened the trailer door, stepping out onto the little wooden porch. 

"Paul?" he called, softly, and there was silence for a beat, then two and then:

"Up here." 

Daryl headed for the ladder that led to the roof, boots clanging on the rungs and he paused with his head above last one to find Paul sprawled out, resting on his elbows with his head tilted to the sky. The wave of relief that washed over him was overpowering. 

"The hell ya doin' up here?" he gruffed. 

Paul didn't take his gaze from the sky. He couldn't - not when it was the only thing keeping him from thinking of the things that had woken him that night. He'd been having nightmares so often that he just got so fed up of them, of the mess he became trying to get over them. And tonight, when Daryl had been sound asleep after five straight nights of tossing and turning, he hadn't been able to bring himself to reach out to him. 

So, he'd climbed up here instead. 

"Don’t -" Daryl said, climbing the rest of his way up, his steps steady as he made his way over the roof to sit next to him. "Wake me up next time, alright?" he said, not quite looking at him. It wouldn’t have mattered, Paul's gaze was on the sky.

"You deserve to sleep," Paul said, and it required actual effort to keep from turning toward Daryl. 

Daryl was quiet for a second or two, and then there was a rustling sound and the clink of a lighter. Paul wondered how often Daryl slept with cigarettes in his pocket, but figured the answer was probably about as often as Daryl _had_ cigarettes in his pocket. 

He didn't speak again until the smell of smoke curled through the air. "Thought you were gone again for a second," Daryl said, words muffled slightly by the cigarette between his lips. "Hell, thought you'd never come back. That I'd just...." he trailed off.

Paul finally looked over, bruised shadows beneath his eyes. It was Daryl who was looking at the sky now, the line of his throat prominent. Paul wanted to trace his Adam's Apple with his teeth. He blinked, rubbed his fingers together to distract himself. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Daryl immediately grunted, shaking his head. "Ain't your fault," he said, looking at him, flicking some ash over the edge of the roof. 

Paul nodded, looked back up to the sky. Neither of them spoke for a few long minutes, the inky blackness dotted with light. That was one of the few good things about the world ending - there weren't any city lights to block out the stars. Paul had always wanted to see a meteor shower but every year, without fail, he'd end up being somewhere with too many lights or the weather would be shit. 

He'd seen his first meteor shower two months after the world ended. 

Unfortunately, he hadn't been in a frame of mind to appreciate it. 

Daryl had never had no trouble seeing the stars at night, but then he'd always lived in the backwoods of Georgia. It was still nice to look at them though, especially when the silence between he and Paul stretched and stretched. 

"There were three others," Paul said, out of nowhere.

"Three others?"

"That....that got taken." 

Daryl frowned, turned his gaze to Paul, but Paul was still looking up at the sky. 

"That was what my dream was about. Them. Us." 

"Was it - were they from other communities?" Daryl asked, although he assumed not, considering it'd only been Paul that'd gone missing that he heard of. 

Paul shook his head. "No, or at least, not from one of ours." 

Daryl nodded, chewed at his lower lip as he tried figure out if questions would be too much. He wanted to know what had happened so fucking badly. It was a constant itch at the back of his mind, one he ignored because he was overjoyed to have Paul back, but it was still there. 

In the end, he didn’t have to ask anything, because Paul went on. 

"We each had a job. I got us into places. Luis fixed things, Eli knew survival and Marnie was medical," he said, mechanically, like reading from a list. 

Paul took a deep breath, staring unblinkingly at the sky because if he closed his eyes he'd see the knife sliding through Eli's temple, slow, slow _slow_ while Eli's wide eyes locked onto his and there'd been so much blood and - 

he scrambled to his feet, startling Daryl at his side. 

"Paul?" Daryl asked, pushing himself into a crouch, but Paul just shook his head, hands wringing together as he stood there, looking suddenly lost. 

"I'm - sorry, I can't - not right now." 

Daryl nodded. "Okay, let's - come on, let's go back inside." 

"I -" Paul hesitated. Inside had felt too constricting when he'd woken up. 

"I found a radio with a CD player. It works. Got some good CDs for once, too," Daryl said, casually, like it's just an offer.

Paul wavered, gaze darting from Daryl's face to the dark blanketing the rest of Hilltop. "Okay," he said. 

Neither of them slept for the rest of the night, but Daryl hadn't lied about the CDs. They were good, for once.

\-- -- --

There was always something to do around Hilltop. Animals to take care of, crops to tend, chores and people to see. Paul felt suffocated by it. It used to be that he'd spend his days outside the walls, scavenging and bringing back much needed materials while also escaping the press of so many responsibilities. 

Now though? Now he thought about leaving the gates and it felt like his blood had been replaced by ice water. He knew it was unlikely he'd be snatched up again and at the warehouse he'd been caught off guard - he and Aaron both - but it's a fear that shakes him to his core. 

He _hated_ it. 

Hated it because he couldn't help the way he froze up whenever someone even mentioned going outside the walls around him. The first time it'd seemed like Daryl was going to ask if he wanted to come with on a hunt, he'd thought he was going to crack a molar from how hard he'd clenched his teeth to keep from yelling at him reflexively, like Daryl could have somehow known about his intense new aversion. 

He couldn't go out, but staying inside made something inside of him itch, like his skin was too small. 

Staying in the trailer helped, some, because it was just him and Daryl. 

Or just him, when Daryl was out, but it still _smelled_ like Daryl. 

"Up for company?" 

Paul stiffened, head jerking toward the door where Aaron stood outside the screen. He relaxed, barely, forcing a smile to his face. 

"Come on in, Aaron," he said. Aaron had moved to Hilltop after the war, and they'd been paired up for the occasional run - like the one Paul had gone missing on - but Paul'd always preferred to work alone if it wasn't Daryl. 

The screen knocked against the frame as it closed behind Aaron, who stood in the doorway with a small bag in his hands. "Brought you some vegetables - well, lettuce," he said, nodding toward the small kitchenette. "Hot off the windowsill." 

Paul smiled. "Thanks," he said. Maybe he could put it on a sandwich if Daryl brought any meat back. 

Aaron stayed for a little while longer, and they talked about...nothing really. Things they would have talked about before Paul went missing, like what the other communities were up to, how the Hilltop expansion was coming, about Gracie. And Daryl, although not about Daryl when Paul was gone. 

Then, Aaron left to go pick up Gracie and Paul went back to sitting on the couch, staring blankly at a paperback book. He didn’t even know the title. 

He sat there, staring at the page, and then he blinked, and the sky was darkening with dusk and the trailer door was opening. His brow furrowed, feeling a little lost for a moment as he watched Daryl set his crossbow against the wall, streaks of dirt visible on his face and arms, a sign of a hunt gone well (or poorly, honestly, he just always came back incredibly dirty). 

He snapped the book closed, fingers tapping on the cover, not nervous but perhaps anxious. His default state these days. "Aaron came by, dropped off some lettuce," he said, and Daryl came over to flop down on the sofa next to him. 

"Yeah, saw him on the way out this morning. He said he was gonna come over," Daryl said. "Think he just wanted an excuse to see ya." 

Paul dug his nail into the book cover, scraping lightly. "Why's that?" 

Daryl eyed him. "Blames himself. For letting you..." Daryl swallowed, looked away. It felt like too much, saying it, even thought it was bullshit - it'd happened, wasn't no way they could pretend otherwise. "Told him it was bullshit, wasn't his fault - that you don't, but..." he shrugged. Guilt was a funny thing. No amount of rational argument or reassurances could ever really make it go away. Just got easier to deal with over time or buried by fresher guilt. 

"I told him it wasn't his fault..." Paul said, frowning. What had happened was going to happen whether Aaron put up a fight or not. If he had, it would have ended up with Aaron dead. Or worse, they could have taken Aaron along with him. 

"Yeah..." Daryl said, shrugging again. "Ain't nothin' you can do about it, I guess," he said. "You bein' back - it helps." 

Paul nodded, lips pressed together as he stared at Daryl. It didn't sound like he was just talking about Aaron. He reached over, sliding his hand over Daryl's, the little star tattoo on the meat of his hand - Paul's never asked about the tattoos, but he wanted to. Not right now, but eventually. Wanted the story about every single one of them. He leaned over, fitting his mouth over Daryl's, and Daryl kissed back immediately, easily, his hand sliding over the nape of his neck. 

It was nice. 

They hadn't kissed much since that day in the bathroom. Sometimes he thought Daryl wanted to, but he'd just stare, chewing on his lower lip, and never do anything about it. And Paul - he wanted to, he did, but it always felt a little like he was going to buzz right out of his skin, the gentle press of Daryl's mouth too sharp, somehow. 

Like it was right now, but he tolerated it for a few more moments before pulling away. 

"Catch anything out there?" he asked, sitting back, Daryl's fingers sliding down over his shoulder before releasing. 

"Yeah, dropped a doe off t'be skinned. Can make some venison burgers, go with that lettuce Aaron brought." 

"Sounds good," Paul said. 

\-- -- --

They ended up bringing the venison burgers over to Aaron's for dinner, along with the lettuce he'd dropped off. Aaron had some tomatoes to add, barely ripe, but somehow still good. After that, there were fresh peaches with cream for dessert. There was a little grove of peach trees not too far from Hilltop, according to Aaron, and it was easy to bring back a basket or two every so often. The cream was from the Hilltop cows. 

Paul watched Daryl shove a spoonful of peaches into his mouth, eating like he didn't know where his next meal was coming from. That was normal. He caught Aaron glancing at him, an amused quirk to his smile, though Aaron quickly glanced away, and Paul shrugged to himself. Paul eyed the peaches on the end of his fork before taking a bite and it was good for a second or two, the sweetness of the peaches and cream going together well, but then there was a flash - a memory - of the half-rotted fruit given as a 'treat', and he had to press his hand against his mouth to keep from spitting it out. 

"You okay? Is there something wrong?" Aaron asked, concerned, and Paul shook his head, forcing himself to swallow, and then again, just to make sure. 

He could feel Daryl's eyes on him like a hawk and felt his face heat. "I'm just - need some air," he said, getting to his feet and he held out a hand when Daryl tried to stand. "I'm fine, I promise, I'll just I'll be right back," he said, forcing the corners of his mouth upward into a pathetically unconvincing smile, gaze not even holding on Daryl's face before he was turning out the door. 

"Shit," Daryl said, staring after Paul, shoulders slumping.


End file.
